


Returning the Favor

by Karri



Series: Fête des Mousquetaires [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Friendship, Fête des Mousquetaires, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 13:22:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4921213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karri/pseuds/Karri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once a brother, always a brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Returning the Favor

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Fête des Mousquetaires competition. Check it out: https://www.fanfiction.net/forum/Fête-des-Mousquetaires/183263/ There are a lot of great entries (that, I must admit, left me a bit intimidated), so come and vote for your favorite!

oOoOoOoOoOo

Old Serge groaned as he eased himself to the edge of his bed.  Over the years, he’d gotten pretty good at hobbling around on his bum leg, so it had been a while since he had last taken a tumble like he had the previous day.   In the moment, as he was being helped back onto his feet by the best and brightest of the Regiment, his pride had seemed to take the worst of it, but now, after a night in bed, his body was definitely feeling it more than his ego.   

 _Still, there will be hungry mouths waking up and expecting breakfast all too soon,_ he reminded himself.  _So, there’s nothing for it but to carry on best as I can._

Free from an audience of young Musketeers, Serge didn’t bother to stifle the moan that slipped out as he creaked to his feet, but then he bit his lip, determined to make a good showing of himself, and hobbled unsteadily toward the kitchen with only a grimace as evidence of his discomfort.  He focused so intently on each wobbly step of his slow progress that his hand was on the kitchen door before he noticed the voices chittering merrily behind it. 

 _What the devil…?_ He cursed, as the sound of banging cupboards and ratting pots reached his ears.  _Shouldn’t be no one messing around in my kitchen at this hour.  The lads should all know better by now than to come sneaking around my pantry for scraps in the wee hours..._ Serge fumed.  His best days may have been past him, thus relegating him to cook rather than soldier, but he _was_ master of _that_ domain.  Even the Captain knew better than to disrupt the sanctity of Serge’s kitchen. 

 _Whoever the miscreants are, they’ll rue their mischief if they’ve made a mess!_ He decided, indignantly, before squaring his shoulders and pushing open the door to face the trouble-makers.  

His glower went unnoticed, though, amidst the swirl of activity inside the kitchen, and soon it had slipped into bewilderment.  Beside a large bag of turnips stood the best swordsman of the Regiment, though, to Serge’s relief, it was a kitchen knife he now used, rather than a weapon.  Down the table from Athos, stood the best hand-hand man of the Regiment, his brute strength now focused on kneading bread, rather than cracking heads.  Behind Porthos, the young upstart of the Regiment was focused on moving baked loaves from the oven.    Lastly, not far from d’Artagnan, stood the best marksman of the Regiment, his eyes fixed on the pot of porridge he was stirring, rather than a target. 

“Mornin’, Serge!” Porthos greeted, as he glanced up from his dough to tease Aramis about his fastidiousness and noticed the old cook standing, agape, in the doorway. 

Startled out of his astonished speechlessness, Serge’s stammered, “M..mornin’, Porthos.  What’s all this?”

“Figured you be bit worse for wear after yesterday and might could use few extra hands this morning,” Porthos replied, casually, a grin lighting his face as he spoke.  It fell away, though, as Serge’s expression shifted from befuddlement to a frown. 

“Yesterday weren’t nothing,” Serge insisted. “Little stumble like that isn’t going to stop me from doing my duty.”

“Whoa, now,” Porthos soothed, raising his flour-covered hand placatingly.  “Didn’t mean no offense…”

“None of us doubt your devotion, Serge, or your ability,” Aramis chimed in, setting aside his ladle and sauntering over to the old cook.  Wrapping his arm around Serge’s shoulders, he gently guided him toward a chair.  “We’ve all been there—sick, injured, worn-out, but not wanting to let our brothers down…but that’s just the thing,” he explained, as he pressed the old cook to sit.  “Part of not letting our brothers down is trusting them to have our backs in times of need—that’s all this is.”

“But I ain’t a brother,” Serge countered.  “I’m just an old cripple who earns his bed by filling your bellies.”

“Nonsense!” declared Athos.  “Once a soldier, always a soldier.  Trading in your sword for a ladle doesn’t release from that brotherhood.”

“Indeed!” agreed Aramis.  “It wouldn’t be much of a brotherhood if we turned our back on those crippled in battle, now would it?”

“All for one, and one for all, after all,” chimed in d’Artagnan. “Most days, you’re the one looking after us all; today, we’re just returning the favor.”

A faint smile crept onto Serge’s lips as his eyes grew suspiciously wet.  But he quickly schooled his emotions, and glowered at the men.  “Just so, then,” he murmured, before raising his voice and adding, “Best let me sample that porridge and a loaf before you go serving to the men, though.   Got a reputation to maintain, after all…”

“Of course,” Aramis replied, with a bow and a flourish, as d’Artagnan fetched a loaf, and Porthos filled a bowl, while Athos moved a small table beside Serge. 

Tucking in, Serge didn’t much notice the quality of the food, though he thought later that it hadn’t been bad.   Right then, it filled his stomach well enough, and combined with the warmth filling his heart, brought a contented smile to his face.  

 

The end.  
 

 


End file.
